


Valse D'Amour

by Themadwomanwhoisunfortunatelylackingabox



Category: The Flash (TV 2014), The Flash - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Regency, Ball, Harlequin AU, M/M, Modern Era, upper class
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-28
Updated: 2016-11-28
Packaged: 2018-09-02 13:26:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8669455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Themadwomanwhoisunfortunatelylackingabox/pseuds/Themadwomanwhoisunfortunatelylackingabox
Summary: The heir to the Allen's fortune has his coming out ball.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kyele](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyele/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The Marriage Bargain](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7332529) by [Kyele](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyele/pseuds/Kyele). 



The envelope that came was crisp, from a set of heavy, good stationary. It was addressed in gold ink: _The Thawne Family, 2024 Star Dr, Central City_. Eobard turned it over in his hands, noting the crest pressed into the red wax that held it shut. Vines curving into the form of an A. 

Allens.

Strange. Eobard had hardly heard from that family since the tragedy. Nobody had heard from them. For the Allens to come out of seclusion now, it must have been for something important. Something very important.

Something like…

_The Allen family would like to cordially invite you to a ball, in honor of their son Bartholomew’s coming into society._

_…_ A debutante ball.  
Eobard ran a hand through his hair. Well, at least Gideon and Tina would be pleased. Gideon loved this sort of thing, and Tina always thought that these things would be “good for him” even though she hardly ever went. _Too busy at the lab,_ she always said, while scribbling down some sort of schematic. _Give them my regards._

As head of the family, Eobard never could do that. It would be an insult.

Sometimes he wished that he had been the one who was born a minute later. He sighed, and set the letter down on the table, regarding it silently. Allens, reentering the world after who knew how long. At least it was bound to be interesting.

* * *

 The Allens’ ball was held in the Ritz.

He entered with Gideon on his arm, though she didn’t stay there for long. She left almost as soon as they walked through the door, chatting effortlessly with a nearby Senator, probably in hopes of securing a grant for her latest charity project. Well, _in hopes of_ was perhaps the wrong phrase. _To_ _coerce into_ was probably better. God help any man who tried to turn down Gideon. 

He sighed, and took a glass of champagne from the nearest waiter.  The doors opened with all the pomp and circumstance afforded to a debutante ball, and a hush fell over the crowd of attendees. Was it time already? He sighed inwardly, and turned his attention towards the doors 

In entered the Allen boy.

He entered the room, and he walked like he was gliding on clouds. He was beautiful. Eobard swallowed, and looked away. He was almost twenty years this boy’s—this _child’s_ —senior. Any thoughts on the graceful way that he moved, or how striking he looked in his white suit, were to be set aside and destroyed. 

However, Eobard had never really been known for self control, andthe Allen boy was exceedingly distracting. His pink lips and hopeful eyes would drive a saint insane, let alone Eobard. The way he moved, too, with his elegant long limbs and a hand running through his hair as he turned a coquettish pink—that too would drive anyone wild. It wasn't Eobard’s fault, therefore, that his eyes strayed toward the Allen boy, that Eobard followed his movements with an unwavering gaze. It was not his fault, then, that when the dancing began, and when he should have taken up waltzing with someone and made polite conversation, his attention stated fixed on the boy, dancing with the West girl. Iris, her name was. She was, quite possibly, his betrothed. The West family had been rather close the Allens before the tragedy struck, despite their relatively lower social class. If rumors were true, they might have also stayed close to the Allens even after their departure from society. 

There was absolutely no reason for Eobard to stare, then. Soon enough, he was sure, he’d be attending the young Mr. Allen’s engagement party, instead of his coming out. If not to Miss West, then to some other suitor, but there was hardly a chance on this earth that he’d go too long without marrying.Their family had been in seclusion for years, and they needed to reinforce their position in society now that they were back in it. 

Even if he didn’t marry for practicality, as Allens were wont to do, considering their warmhearted and foolhardy tendencies, there was no way that the boy wouldn’t be receiving offer after offer for his hand. He was immensely beautiful, and above all else, he radiated happiness like he was the only ray of sunshine left in a barren, dark world. Eobard had fallen half in love with him the first moment he saw him. He had a fair wit, too, Eobard had heard. He’d make anyone a fine husband. Even Eobard—but no, that was a dangerous train of thought.

When Mr. Allen married, it would be to a woman, most likely. The pressure to carry on the Allen name would be bearing on him dreadfully. The Allens were an old family, and had practically been a part of society since Central City was founded, but they were dying out. Last Eobard knew, Mr. Allen and his father would be the only ones left. 

Either way, he would never marry out. And Eobard was head of the family. He wouldn’t just abdicate. That was an Allen trait. He was a Thawne, and Thawnes did what they were supposed to. 

“Eobard,” Gideon startled him out of his thoughts. “Don’t you think you should ask him to dance?”

“I thought you were convincing a Republican to donate to Planned Parenthood,” he said.

She raised an eyebrow and sent him a look. “Funny,” she said dryly. “At least I was speaking to someone. You’ve been standing here motionless for so long I think most people have mistaken you for a statue.”

“I’ve spoken to people,” he protested. It was impossible not to, at this sort of thing. It was, after all the only reason to go—to see and be seen, to reinforce family ties. He had managed a few inane conversations about polite small talk, and had even managed a fairly vigorous discussion of politics with a senator.

“You need to offer your congratulations, at least,” Gideon continued, as if he hadn’t spoken at all. 

Admittedly, he did need to do that. But certainly his congratulations could be given discreetly, maybe to the head of the family, and he wouldn’t have to deal with interacting with the young debutante. 

“Eobard.” Gideon frowned, staring him down like they were kids again. However, they weren’t kids anymore, and there was no way Eobard was going to cave simply because Gideon was glaring at him. “Talk to him. Ask him to dance,” she said. “It won’t kill you.”

_Are you sure,_ he almost asked, because surely a dance with him had to be deadly. Unfortunately, Eobard was neither that petulant nor that overdramatic. 

“Eobard,” she said again, and this time it was different. It was the familiar sigh of _I don’t want you alone forever, Eo,_ and _you can want things for yourself._

“I’m more than twenty years his senior, Gideon,” he said stiffly.

“It wouldn’t hurt to try,” she said, but of course it would. “Besides, I’ve seen far larger age differences turn out.” 

“That’s only because one of them died before anything catastrophic could happen.” 

“Well, maybe you’ll live out the rest of your life happily, too,” she said, and linked their arms together. “Come on, Eobard, go ask the boy for a dance.”

“No,” he said, and met her gaze with a glare of his own. “I’m serious, Gideon.” 

She sighed, and pulled her shawl tighter over her shoulders. “You still need to offer your congratulations, you know.”

“I will,” he said, and he didn’t watch her leave. He stared at the bubbles in his champagne; he sighed. He did have to offer his congratulations, of course. It was only polite. Still, that didn’t mean he had to speak to the Allen boy himself.

The Allen head of house was an aging man, but he didn’t age badly. His hair was gray—perhaps slightly prematurely, with the stress of being a practicing doctor and the head of house of one of the most prominent families in America—and that wasn’t even counting the tragedy of his wife’s death. Still, there were laugh lines around his mouth, and his Garrick blue eyes had a kind spark in them that wasn’t common in blue-blooded families—or at the very least, not in any blue blood family that wasn’t the Allens. 

“Congratulations on your son’s coming out, Mr. Allen,” he said, shaking his hand. “I’m certain you’re very proud.” 

“I am, very much so,” he said. “Thank you, Mr. Thawne.” 

Eobard raised his glass in a mock-toast, polite smile plastered on his face. Henry Allen replied in kind, and then turned on to the next well wisher. Eobard was free to do as he pleased. He turned, about to sweep off and do what he came here to do—only to come face-to-face with none other than the Allen boy himself. 

“Hello,” the boy said, “I don’t think we’ve met before. I’m Barry Allen, nice to meet you.” Barry smiled, so sweet and so genuine that Eobard thought he might as well die right there and then. 

“Eobard Thawne,” he said, and took his hand. Barry had nice hands, he noticed, soft and warm. A gentleman’s hands. 

“Thank you for coming, Mr. Thawne,” he said, and Eobard suddenly wished to hear what _Eobard_ sounded like, coming from Barry’s lips. “I appreciate it.” 

“Of course,” he said, and irrationally it felt like Barry actually did appreciate it. The sentiment was ridiculous, obviously—Mr. Allen had no idea who he was, nor would he care particularly that he came—but Eobard couldn’t help the way the thought of it warmed him. 

The orchestra began playing again, something gentle and romantic, and Eobard waited for Barry to make his excuses and find a dance partner. He didn’t, however. He stayed, and his gaze never left Eobard. The silence stretched out before them; neither spoke, for a second. Then, Barry’s tongue wet his red lips, and if this were some overdramatic romance novel of Eddie’s, Eobard would lean forwards and kiss him, propriety be damned. Instead, Barry glanced at him, hesitant, and said, “do you dance, Mr. Thawne?” 

Of course Eobard could dance, he was born into wealth and all the trappings that came with it. However, that wasn’t the question. The question was _do you dance,_ tentative enough to be brushed off easily without any discomfort, but insistent enough to be a proposition. He knew, of course, that he should turn Barry down.Eobard was old enough to be his father, and was no kind of man for a debutante to be hanging off of. But—Barry stared at him with big, pretty eyes that couldn’t properly mask the hope held inside, and well, what could one dance hurt. “That depends, Mr. Allen,” Eobard said finally, “do you care to dance?” 

“Yes,” Barry said, a little bit breathless. “I would love to.” 

Eobard offered his arm, and led him out on to the floor. Nothing would come of a dance, he told himself. Nothing could. But debutantes dreamed of Cinderella balls complete with Prince Charmings, and Eobard wasn’t nearly so heartless to deny Barry of that. 

Then Eobard took his hand, and led him into a waltz. One hand wrapped itself against Barry’s back and the both of them were close enough to kiss— and all thoughts of altruism fled his head immediately. Barry was in his element, like this. He danced gracefully, the light from the chandeliers coloring his hair almost golden. When he spun, controlled but energetic, Eobard caught him in his arms without any trouble. He was a wonderful dance partner; he always seemed to know what Eobard was about to lead him into before he did it. If he were a more poetic man, he might have said that Barry knew him, and he knew him almost effortlessly. They fit together like puzzle pieces, Eobard leading and Barry following, but Eobard was not a poetic man, and this was only a dance. 

The orchestra winded to an end, and when they parted Eobard could almost pretend he felt Barry’s arms linger a little as he left. Eobard was struck with then urge to grab Barry’s hand as it left, to pull it up to his arms and kiss it, like this was some old regency romance. 

Still, Barry didn’t leave, even though the song had ended. They stood there, in relative silence, Barry wringing his hands and Eobard staring at him, transfixed. Barry bit at his lip, and looked away, but he didn’t move, either. “You know,” he began hesitantly. His eyes flickered back toward Eobard, glancing up through his eyelashes. “I saw you earlier.” 

“Oh?” 

“I saw you _watching_ ,” he continued, barely more than a murmur. “Your eyes hardly ever left me.” He touched Eobard’s hand again, just barely before he retracted. “I liked that.” 

“Mr. Allen,” Eobard said, his face flushing. “I believe you are mistaken.”

“I am?” Barry’s eyes glanced upwards again, searching for something in Eobard’s face that he couldn’t find. Barry’s face fell. “I see. I just thought—It doesn’t matter.” He turned to flee, the crestfallen expression of rejection clear on his face for anyone to see.

Eobard grabbed his hand before he could disappear. “Wait,” he said, and regretted it immediately afterwards. He should have let him go. It would have been for the best. Barry Allen had no use hanging around an old man like him. Barry Allen should run off and find someone else to murmur seductively to, the Lord knew that Eobard couldn’t take any more of it.

“Yes?” Barry said, and there was a quiet hope in his eyes. 

“I…” Words suddenly felt impossible to achieve, his tongue felt tied in his mouth. He had to say something, but he had no idea what, and no idea how. Before, the idea of him being rendered speechless was laughable, but here, with Barry Allen staring up at him, he couldn’t find a single thing to say. 

“Maybe I wasn’t so mistaken after all?” 

“Maybe,” he managed.

“Well, if I wasn’t quite so mistaken, maybe I might see you again sometime? Maybe at dinner, sometime, where you might talk to my father about how very not mistaken I was?”

Meaning, of course: _Where you might ask my father for permission to court me._

“He wouldn’t mind. Thawnes and Allens used to be very close before we went away, didn’t they?”

Eobard began to feel light headed. “I’m head of house,” Eobard protested, almost weakly. 

“My father isn’t as old as you might think, Mr. Thawne,” Barry said, “And I always thought a marriage uniting two strong houses would be the best thing that could happen for our families.” 

Typical Allen thinking. Barry was quite possibly the last person in his family tree, unless some unexpected cousins or bastard relatives popped up, and here he was, practically declaring that he was going to marry out—maybe to Eobard. The prospect was dizzying. 

Barry pulled his hand away slowly. “Maybe I was wrong. But, for what it’s worth, I’ve been watching you, too, Mr. Thawne. For quite some time.” 

Eobard knew on some level that their definitions of _quite some time_ were probably vastly different, but the notion was so pleasing it warmed Eobard straight to his core. “Mr. Allen,” he said, and he should say _I’m afraid I will not be able to attend dinner with you,_ or _you’re mistaken once again. I may have been watching, but that does not mean I have been wanting. Or that I will have you._ He didn’t say any of that. Instead, he thought _I’ve been alone for so long,_ and about how pleasant Barry Allen would look between his sheets, or with a bouquet of wedding flowers clasped between his fingers. “I would be honored.”

A smile blossomed on Barry’s face, small but beautiful, and Eobard wondered how anyone was supposed to spend time with this boy without immediately doing whatever he said. Barry was beyond enchanting, he was bewitching. Still, Eobard would spend the rest of his life under a spell if it meant he could make Barry Allen happy—and make Barry Allen his. 

Silently, Eobard raised Barry’s hand to his mouth and kissed it. In the background, the orchestra began to play again. “May I have this dance?” He asked, and swept him off onto the floor when Barry smiled and laughed.

 

**Author's Note:**

> A very happy Birthday to my darling Kyele!!! You asked for fluff, and I hope I've delivered. :)
> 
> Kind of loosely based off of The Marriage Bargain's dynamics, where seclusion is like bereavement but like...they literally haven't talked to most of society in like, ten years. 
> 
> Title based off of this song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pIg9sYGnMKw


End file.
